


The Laystone Inn

by Karimshot



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: M/M, Multi, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karimshot/pseuds/Karimshot
Summary: I guess the innkeeper is out for the night. Reviews: "It's not too bad, it's more cute than anything else."
Relationships: Bast/Graham (Kingkiller Chronicle), Bast/Old Cob (Kingkiller Chronicle), Graham/Old Cob (Kingkiller Chronicle)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	The Laystone Inn

**Author's Note:**

> I was on Discord (thanks, COVID-19) when user Joice_Katlyn made the faintest suggestion that I write smutty fanfic. This was written for them in a half hour.

It was night again. The Waystone Inn would have lain in silence, but it was Bast getting laid instead.

The most immediate person there was a big, burly man, his muscles honed by fieldwork. If Old Cob had been younger, Bast would have sat on top of him, sending the man's pleasure shuddering through the mattress and setting the wooden bed frame to a creak. If the man had been less deft, less cock-sure, Bast would have taken control, reining in him like a wild stallion, domesticating him. If there had been reason to doubt...but no, of course there was no reason. In fact there were none of these things, and so Bast kept getting laid.

Beside the bed a second man moved across the others, pleasuring them with his mouth. Bending every so often, Graham moved his hands in secret places, his fingers moving like a thief's in the night. In doing this he added a second, deeper reason for Bast to lie there, unable to move even if he wanted to. They made a buckling of sorts, a bumper crop.

But the real pleasure was an easy thing to notice. If you listened for a second, you might hear it like a moan on the wind, or in the rhythmic beating of an upstairs bed, lost in its own music. It was in the bites Bast left on the pillows and the tears his clasping hands left in the innkeeper's sheets.

The pleasure was his, just as the men were his. This was appropriate, as he was the greatest lover of the three, wrapping the others inside himself. It was deep and wide as a flooding river. It was heavy as a former lover's kiss. It was the patient, deep-chested groaning of a man getting ready to cum.


End file.
